


A Study in Body Shots

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Body Shots, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Reichenbach, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fluffersmut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, even after coming back from the dead, Sherlock can be a bit of a party pooper.</p><p>John helps him live a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Body Shots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scullyseviltwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/gifts), [CamilleKaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleKaze/gifts), [inheritanceofgeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inheritanceofgeek/gifts).



> This is shameless, silly, fluffy, smutty nonsense. It's fluffersmut. Basically everything it says in the title/on the tin. It is a gift for a lovely group of ladies without whom my days would be a lot less fun. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (unbetaed and unBritpicked, so you know, there's that.)
> 
> Update: A lovely person did some lovely art for my fic! [Check it out!](http://jocelee.tumblr.com/post/65815751748/im-going-to-take-a-shot-off-you-right-sherlock)
> 
> Update 2: The inimitable [msaether](http://msaether.tumblr.com) was commissioned by the amazing [mylittlecornerofsherlock](http://mylittlecornerofsherlock.tumblr.com) to do absolutely stunning depictions of two scenes from this fic, and I cannot thank either of these lovelies enough!
> 
> [SFW scene](http://wearitcounts.tumblr.com/post/89822107187/msaether-a-commission-done-for-the-amazing)  
> [NSFW scene](http://wearitcounts.tumblr.com/post/89821655737/msaether-the-partner-commission-for-the)

If he’d been told in his former life that he’d be attending a large party at a local pub to celebrate Greg Lestrade’s promotion (more like reinstatement, Sherlock thought, but when he had opened his mouth to say so, John had stomped most pointedly on his right foot and dug in hard), a party replete with Donovan and Anderson and a myriad of the Yard’s ever-charmless minions, Sherlock would have sneered the thought right out out of the room and possibly off the edge of the planet. However, he’d rather begun thinking of it as his former life, as it was the time before he was dead, and since returning from death, he’d learned he owed certain people quite a lot.

Among those people was Greg Lestrade; also, John Watson.

And while his former self in his former life might have gone to extreme measures to ensure that not only did everybody around him notice what a horrible time he was having, but also that those in closest proximity (usually the aforementioned John Watson) were inevitably needled into joining him, his current self, in his current life, was smiling at all the right moments, sipping half-heartedly on a pint, and genuinely trying not to be unpleasant in the absence of shamming at charming. Greg was getting robustly pissed on single malt, the Yarders were milling about, globbing to one another in little groups of twos and threes like teenagers at a school dance, and John was standing near him, turned away and staring at something across the pub, cheeks flushed a soft pink that was largely the result of the tumbler in his hand containing his third scotch of the evening. He followed John’s gaze.

Ah, he thought to himself. A hen do. That _would_ catch John’s attention. “See anything you like?” His voice rumbled out of his chest like a lorry down an ill-paved road and he saw John start a little at it.

“Bit young for me, wouldn’t you say?” John chuckled nervously and took another swig of his drink. “Can’t be more than twenty-five, twenty-six, those girls? I’m old enough to be—” John paused and appeared to do a mental calculation. “Well, I’m old enough to be their creepy uncle, anyway.”

Sherlock grinned. “What, a dashing man such as yourself, Three Continents Watson, aging himself out of a perfectly willing and able demographic?”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t my choice.” John smiled ruefully, raking his fingers through his hair and tugging meaningfully.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock replied, “I’ve been reliably informed that silver is _in_. Look at Lestrade; ever since his photo was in all the papers about this whole reinst—ahm, promotion nonsense, he can’t walk down the street without being chatted up by a woman half his age.”

“ _You_ look at Lestrade,” John countered. Sherlock looked. Lestrade was leaning against the bar, mouth wide with laughter, showcasing his large white teeth against his tanned skin. He had thick arms and fingers, and his middle had only barely gone soft. He had the kind of eyes that could look hard or gentle at a turn, liquid brown and wide. Sherlock shrugged as John scoffed, “I’m no Lestrade.”

“No,” Sherlock steadied his gaze on John’s face. “I should say not.”

Their eyes met for just a moment, just long enough for Sherlock to feel that little frisson of _something_ he’d been feeling increasingly often over the weeks and even months prior. When he’d first come back, when John had still been angry and John hadn’t been talking to him except to come round the flat every once in a while, ostensibly to holler at him but more likely just to reaffirm that Sherlock was indeed still alive, there had been a tension between them that felt insurmountable. Then, slowly, John stopped coming over to yell and started coming over to talk. Then they began to laugh together again, and then came the cases, and finally, things seemed to be back right about where they ought to be.

Except they weren’t.

Whatever the insurmountable tension was that had kept them from falling immediately back into their old partnership at the outset had manifested itself elsewhere, someplace with which Sherlock was cripplingly unfamiliar, someplace that seemed to inhabit at once his belly, lungs, fingertips and toes, and, occasionally, most inconveniently, his groin.

John broke the heated moment with a wry laugh. “I’d say you’re much more their speed. Tall, dark, and young. Well, young enough.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please. I’ve told you. Not my area.”

“Even now?” John’s eyes shifted away as he asked. Sherlock knew John had noted the differences between this life and his former one; the fact that he ate with far more regularity, the fact that he slept straight through the night more than half the week; the fact that his edges had blurred and softened just enough to make him pretend to enjoy a social gathering for the sake of someone’s feelings.

Sherlock’s stare was relentless as he answered, “Especially now.”

John opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a slightly shrill and less-than-slightly intoxicated female voice.

“You’re cute.”

One of the women attending the hen party was standing just to the right of John, facing them both, one hand grasping a well-formed hip. She looked them up and down appraisingly. “You’ll do. Come with me. It’s Lizzie’s last night as a free woman, and we’ve sworn we won’t rest until a handsome man from each stop on our itinerary has done a shot off her tummy!”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I beg your pardon?”

“Wasn’t asking you, love.” The blonde grasped John’s arm with one hand and waved Sherlock off with the other. “Thanks just the same.”

Sherlock caught John’s sleeve as he was being dragged away. “John! You can’t be serious.”

John tugged his arm from Sherlock’s grasp. “Come on, Sherlock. Live a little. It beats dying,” he added with a sharp glare. Sherlock released him and watched as he and his escort made their way over to the group of now shrieking young women, all surrounding the brunette who seemed to be at the centre of the evening’s festivities.

“Oh, _lovely_ choice, Amanda!” A tall ginger reached a lanky arm out to squeeze John’s bicep. “He’s _fit_.”

John coughed out an embarrassed giggle. “Ladies, please. I believe I’m here for the bride-to-be?”

Sherlock fumed from across the pub. He couldn’t explain why, but for whatever reason, the space between his lungs and his ribs felt full of fire, and his stomach had sunk lower than his kidneys. He approached the bar and ordered a scotch neat, downing it in one swift gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared even more intently, even as one of the women poured a tiny amount of tequila directly into the belly button of the supine bachelorette who was stretched out, all limbs and sparkles and ribbons and skin, across a row of seats framing a long table.

He watched as John laughed and charmed the other women, he watched as John knelt beside the intended bride, he watched as John licked salt off her delicate wrist, as he wrapped his lips around her navel and sucked in hard, as she gasped and laughed and curled upward, catching his face in her hands and planting a sloppy kiss on his mouth.

“ _Enough_!” Sherlock thundered, taking advantage of the length of his limbs by striding over to the scene in three paces. The group stared at him silently as he threw his arms about, his rant picking up steam.  “John, please; this is ridiculous! It’s dirty! And… it’s sticky. And unhygienic. And, you’re over forty!”

John slowly stood. “Sherlock,” he began quietly, placing a hand on Sherlock’s bicep.

Sherlock jerked away. “You’ve got salt all over your hands.”

John sighed, and then smiled, a mysterious little smile that caught Sherlock off guard. He began stroking his hand down Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock,” he repeated, his tone a bit softer, almost seductive.

“What?” Sherlock eyed him cautiously. “What are you going to do?”

“You’ve never done a body shot.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course I haven’t. What a silly practise, pouring liquor all over yourself and allowing some _person_ , some _stranger_ you’ve just met in a pub put her mouth all over you, or putting your mouth all over _her_.” Sherlock glared at the brunette who had just participated in the illicit activity with John. “Have you any idea what sorts of communicable diseases you could catch doing something so unforgivably stupid?” Sherlock was about to launch into quite a comprehensive list, but John pressed a hand over his lips before he was able.

“Living a little, remember? Not being dead? We’re trying it, yeah?” Sherlock breathed out, deflated himself, and John looked behind him at the women crowding the bar. “Ladies, can we spare one for my mate, here?”

A slender, dark-haired woman with crimson lipstick pushed through, tequila shot in hand. “I think I’d like to do the honors,” she drawled.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “No—really, John, I—”

“You know _what_ ,” the bride-to-be had pulled herself up into a seated position and was now watching the proceedings with the air of a queen observing her subjects. “I think I’d like to see _you_ ,” she pointed one pink-tipped forefinger at John, “do one off _him_ ,” she finished, whirling her hand until the same digit was aimed at Sherlock. “Please? For me. I’m getting married tomorrow, you know.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “As I’ve just stated quite plainly—”

“He’s joking about the diseases, of course,” John intercepted smoothly, and pushed Sherlock a few steps away from the crowd. “Listen, you,” he began, his voice low. “This isn’t about you being more clever or sanitary or posh than everybody else, all right? This is about a nice girl who’s about to be married, and she’s drunk and so are her friends, and so am I, if I’m perfectly honest, because lord knows tomorrow I’m going to blame this on the drink. So we’re going to do this ridiculous thing for them because they deserve to have a ridiculous time, and you’re going to shut your mouth about it, okay?”

Sherlock panicked.

“My shirt!” Sherlock hissed. “I won’t let you pour tequila all over my two-hundred-quid Dolce and Gabbana shirt, thank you _very_ much.”

John eyed the purple sateen doubtfully. “Hmm,” he murmured. “I just may have an idea.”

Sherlock’s insides began doing a funny little foxtrot as John tugged him over to the line of chairs prepared for the next victim. “Lie there,” John instructed.

“He looks a bit like he’s been sentenced to public hanging, doesn’t he?” The tall ginger stage-whispered to her red-lipped friend, and they both giggled. Sherlock lifted his chin and shot them a haughty look before gracefully taking over three of the chairs in the row with the bottom half of his body.

“I’m too tall; it won’t work,” he declared as he sat upright, legs stretched in front; the top portion of his torso would reach well beyond the edge of the fourth chair if he lay back.

“I don’t intend for you to lie down. Scooch down a bit, that’s a lad, just so you can prop yourself up on your elbows,” John patted Sherlock’s thigh and gestured in the direction of his feet. “Now, tilt your head back, only a touch, there. Perfect.”

Sherlock felt more than a little absurd. “Anytime you care to explain what on earth it is we’re doing, I’ll be much obliged.” The buttons of his shirt strained against the pull of his bowed shoulders.

John held in one hand the shot of tequila and in the other, a wedge of lime. With the hand holding the lime, he drew close to Sherlock’s neck. “Christ, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, and then continued much louder, “I’m going to take a shot off you right…” Sherlock swallowed as John dipped a forefinger into his suprasternal notch, the hollow notably deeper given the thrust of his clavicle in his current position, “ _there_.”

The bride-to-be made a loud, squeaking sort of noise, and Sherlock and John both looked up at her in alarm.

“Nothing! It’s nothing. Please… go on.” She cleared her throat and nodded encouragingly. “ _Please_.”

Half of John’s mouth quirked up and he looked down at Sherlock. “All right?”

Sherlock tried very hard to keep his breathing even. He rolled his eyes for good measure.  “If you must,” he replied. His tongue felt thick and a little too wet. He swallowed again.

“Good. Just stay still for me, okay? You move, that’s your hideously overpriced shirt ruined.” He knelt beside Sherlock and surveyed his chest. “Not that it even fits you, anyway,” he added, _sotto voce_.  

 “I _beg_ your pardon?” Sherlock raised his head to glare at John.

“Be still, I said.” John touched Sherlock’s jaw to ease his head back again, and then very slowly moved the hand holding the shot glass to hover over him. He tipped it gently, and Sherlock felt the cold trickle of liquid gathering in the concave jugular notch at the base of his neck. He held back a shudder.

“John,” he whispered.

“Shh... probably shouldn’t talk, yeah? Might spill.” John was so close he could smell the liquor and lime on his breath, bitter and sour and somehow altogether appealing. He closed his eyes instead of taking the deep breath that he wanted.

Before he opened his eyes, he felt it; the cool, sticky circle of lime juice John trailed around the puddle of tequila by squeezing the lime wedge between his fingers and dragging it across Sherlock’s skin. He couldn’t gulp or cough or move, so instead he kept his eyes clamped shut, afraid to spill, afraid to look, afraid to embarrass himself by any inconvenient reactions he might have that would betray how much he was not actually opposed to anything John was doing.

“I’d ask you to hold the lime in your mouth for me, but we all have our limits,” John said, his voice stained with mirth. _Limits_? Sherlock thought. He suddenly wasn’t sure whose limits were being tested here; his own, or John’s.

“Salt?” He heard John request, and a moment later, he felt a slight sprinkle around the the ring of lime juice on his neck. “Here we go then, ladies; enjoy it, because after this, I don’t think I’ll ever convince him to go to a pub again, full stop.”

Sherlock opened his eyes just soon enough to see a lot of things: there was the barely-registered blur of brightly clothed women surrounding them, gasping and cooing and generally making an even bigger spectacle of the event than it already was; there were Lestrade and a large handful of the Yarders standing a small distance back, jaws absolutely unhinged (thankfully absent were Donovan and Anderson, who had taken off within five minutes of each other not a quarter of an hour earlier); and then there was John, the only person to whom Sherlock’s brain could apply even the remotest amount of focus, smirking at him, throwing him a saucy little wink, licking his lips and dipping his head.

Then it was all sensation; John’s tongue slowly pulling across the the salt stuck to his skin by the lime, circling the cold pool of liquid he could still feel settled against his clavicle, John’s spit-slicked lips wrapping themselves around the outside of the puddle, John’s mouth and tongue slurping and sucking at the tequila and at his neck, John’s nose exhaling hard against his collarbone as he licked and drank, swallowed and began to laugh even before he lifted his face.

Sherlock couldn’t quite move yet, his whole body clenched and tingling, as John looked down at him with eyes almost entirely pupil, raised a hand to his own mouth, and bit into the lime wedge he’d been holding. Their gaze locked for a brief, unaccountably heated moment before John’s lips parted in a mossy green grin, the rind filling the center of his smile. Sherlock willed his body to relax, tore his eyes from John’s, and forced a weak chuckle.

“Well,” Sherlock said, his voice gone slightly croaky, “that was educational.”

 ** ** **  
****** *

 ** ** **  
****** The taxi ride back to 221B felt interminable.

They’d waved off both the shrieking flock of young women and the shell-shocked gaggle of Yarders, yelling out their excuses whilst pulling on their coats, ignoring the lewd comments and generally avoiding one another’s eye. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened between them, but he was certain that whatever it was, it was _something_ , and that this _something_ was more than all the other _somethings_ that had occurred over the weeks and months since his return, and that whether or not they looked at each other or spoke to each other or acknowledged one another’s existence in the time between exiting the bar and entering the taxi, _this_ something wasn’t going away.

He looked down at the space between the last fingers of each of their hands as they both rested on the seat between them in the back of the cab. He looked up to see John looking at him. John’s eyebrows raised a fraction. Sherlock stared back, and John turned his head to look out of the window.

“Educational,” John finally spoke, still facing away. “Does that mean you liked it, then?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied. John turned back and faced him. Sherlock didn’t look away as he added, “need more data.”

“I see,” John replied, eyes still locked on Sherlock’s. “Have an experiment in mind, do you?”

Sherlock twitched the fingers of the hand on the seat next to him and moved them a touch closer to John’s. “I have some ideas, yes.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Sherlock studied John. He studied the way John’s fingers lay steadfastly closer to Sherlock than was strictly necessary; he studied the way John’s thighs fell a bit more open than usual, the way his breath came shallow and quick, the way his tongue ran along his lower lip and the way his eyes flickered up and down Sherlock’s face, resting more often than not on Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock slid his hand the rest of the distance between them, covering John’s and giving his fingers an experimental squeeze.

“If you’re amenable, yes.”

John turned his hand over, pushed his palm against Sherlock’s, and wove their fingers together. He squeezed back. “It would seem so,” he said.

Sherlock smiled then, the real one, the smile that only took one side of his mouth as the other side tilted down, and then quickly looked away. His mind filled with possibilities, with questions about limits and controls and variables. He turned back, intending to ask John whether or not the particular brand of tequila in question would matter one way or the other when he saw John’s face closing in on his face, and could only get out a surprised _oh!_ before John’s mouth covered his own and John’s tongue swiped across his bottom lip.

He groaned and John licked the inside of his mouth before sucking on his bottom lip, trapping it between his teeth. John made to climb over to Sherlock’s side of the cab, but they were startled apart by a loud protest.

“ _Oi_!” The cabbie yelled, rapping his fist against the plastic partition, “almost there! No gettin’ off in the back o’ the cab, 'right?”

John blushed furiously, but his eyes were dark as he regarded Sherlock.

 _Just wait_ , his gaze seemed to say, _because when we get home_...

Sherlock responded in kind, quirking an eyebrow. He shifted his hips, acutely aware of his arousal forming a thick line down the inside of his trousers. Slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the cabbie, Sherlock brought John’s hand, still clasped in his own, across his thigh. He turned it around and guided it between his legs, pressing John’s palm against his erection. John let out a little moan and spread his thighs even farther apart.

They passed the rest of the ride in silence, both with breath heavy, John gently rubbing a thumb back and forth across Sherlock through his trousers, his hand steady beneath the warm and solid weight of Sherlock’s own.

 ** ** **  
****** *

 ** ** **  
****** They stumbled into 221B clumsily and without preamble, mouths still locked to one another’s, coats flung in the general direction of anywhere. They broke apart and Sherlock grinned. “Now,” he said, and cleared his throat, “about that data.”

John looked pointedly down at the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. “Seriously, Sherlock,” he said, and his breath caught as Sherlock leaned forward and worried a little red mark into the juncture of his jaw and his ear, “you haven’t yet come to any— _ah—_ conclusions?”

“Naturally I’ve got enough to go on with regard to being the _passive_ partner,” Sherlock said as he pulled John’s jumper over his head, dropped it behind him, and began unbuttoning John’s shirt, “but I haven’t yet been able to gather any relevant information about performing the _active_ role.”

John huffed out a small laugh as Sherlock shoved his shirt off his shoulders and tossed it aside. “You’d like to do a shot off me, is what you’re saying?”

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed, and began working at John’s belt. “But I’d like to add another variable. Not terribly scientific, mind, but for this portion of the experiment, I think it would be most efficient if you were naked.”

John caught Sherlock’s hands and guided them back to his own trousers. “I will be if you are.”

 ** ** **  
****** *

 ** ** **  
****** As it turned out, John naked was a rather splendid thing, and Sherlock reverently spread him out over the sofa, running his hands all over John’s legs and arms and dropping a kiss onto his turned-up mouth.

They had managed to locate a small bottle of amaretto, which was much more to Sherlock’s taste anyway, in the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink; and, after divesting himself of the rest of his own garments, Sherlock was knelt to John’s side, studying John’s unclothed form for promising crevasses into which he might pour it. John was watching Sherlock with his typical amused smile, hands folded behind his head, cock a bit more than half-hard, resting pink and fat in the divot between his abdomen and thigh. Sherlock looked down at it and licked his lips.

“Well, we should start with what we know,” he declared, and tipped a dollop of the sticky liqueur into John’s belly button. John shuddered a little, and then his whole body jerked as Sherlock bent over and fastened his mouth around John’s navel, sucking hard and swirling his tongue inside. Sherlock felt John’s cock twitch and fill against his collarbone as he continued working his mouth on the sensitive skin and he smiled into John’s stomach. John let out a whimper.

“Sherlock,” he panted, “please.”

“Next, some new territory, I think,” Sherlock drizzled a small amount of amaretto right in the middle of John’s chest, below his nipples, just at the bottom centre of his thoracic cavity. He leaned down again and ran his tongue all over, smearing the liquid more than drinking it, only to lap it up again. John released a longer, louder sort of noise from somewhere deep in his throat, and Sherlock turned his head to see John’s cock jump, foreskin fully retracted, a small glimmer of precome glistening at the tip.

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Just one more data point to collect; we do want to be thorough,” Sherlock moved down the length of John’s body and crawled onto the couch, settling himself in the vee between John’s legs. He bent forward until he was breathing humidly over John’s prick. The hand holding the bottle hovered and he could hear John’s breath catch as he tilted it so very slowly, torturously slowly, until just the smallest of droplets spilled down from its mouth and over the head of John’s flushed arousal. His cock jumped again as his stomach muscles flexed, and the droplet became a tiny amaretto river running down the underside. John exhaled heavily and wriggled his fingers.

“Go on, then,” he said.

Sherlock grinned and laved all over the base of John’s cock before tracing the line of liqueur, pressing the flat of his tongue against the sensitive frenulum before taking the entire glans in his mouth and giving it a hearty suck.

“ _Ungh—_ Sherlock!” John yelped, and Sherlock responded by filling his mouth even more, wrapping his free hand around the base, and hollowing his cheeks as he worked John’s cock with his lips and tongue. He bobbed up and down on John’s prick, pumping with his fist, gently cupping and squeezing John’s bollocks with his free hand. John was moaning now, knees pulling upward and hands moving down to fist in Sherlock’s hair. “God, _Christ_ , oh— _oh_ , Sherlock, I’m going to—”

Sherlock swallowed John down until the head of his cock hit the back of his throat. He looked up through his eyelashes, eyes gleaming wickedly, and caught John’s wrecked expression as he tensed, shuddered, and let out a long, low groan. He waited until John’s muscles went weak with release, and then slowly pulled off with a satisfied slurp. He licked his lips. “An interesting result,” he said. “I must say the amaretto does add a certain something.”

“Get up here, you mad bastard,” John replied, still breathless, pulling Sherlock up over his body and kissing him soundly on the mouth. Sherlock settled against him, legs between John’s, face buried in the crook of John’s neck where he smelled the most like himself. He breathed in deeply.

“Mm,” Sherlock said.

“Tell me what you want,” John whispered, curling an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and dotting his forehead with sweet, closed-mouth kisses.

“You,” Sherlock sighed. John smiled against his temple. Sherlock shifted his hips, pressing the jut of his erection into John’s stomach. John reached down and wrapped a hand around it, giving it a few firm strokes before smoothing his thumb over the plummy, leaking head. Sherlock sighed into John’s neck again, nibbling it a bit and then soothing over the bites with his tongue.

“Look at you,” John breathed, running his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm. “One moment you’re the world’s most crazed sex scientist, and the next you’re a contented little housecat.” Sherlock snuggled deeper against John and let out with a small, low whine as John’s other hand moved faster on his cock, hips stuttering and thrusting in concert.

“Hmmm... _John_ ,” Sherlock moaned. He had been so painfully aroused for so terribly long; he was sure he wouldn’t last. “You’re going to make me come.”

“Well, that’s rather the idea.”

“J—Johnnn,” Sherlock groaned, and then his throat caught on a soft little grunt as he felt himself pulse and spill, his release hot and thick over John’s hand and stomach. He pushed himself twice, three times more into the wet circle of John’s fist and John worked him through it, kissing his closed eyelids and murmuring encouragement into his skin.

“That’s it, love,” John said between kisses. “Gorgeous.”

Sherlock tucked his head and hummed against John’s shoulder. He looked up at John’s face, and grinned a little sheepishly. John kissed the tip of his nose and smiled back. “Hello there,” John said.

“It’s sticky,” Sherlock replied. John squeezed his shoulder and rubbed the top of his arm.

“Shower?” John asked.

Sherlock climbed over John and off of the sofa, and then grasped John’s hand, pulling him to his feet as well. “Yes,” he said, “and please let’s be thorough; later, we’ll need to start over.”

“Start over?” John questioned.

“Oh, yes, John,” Sherlock began walking toward the bathroom, dragging John behind, looking over his shoulder and lifting an eyebrow. “What good is an experiment if we don’t replicate the results?”


End file.
